tied in history
by LBx
Summary: A collection of stories focusing on the bond between Canada and France.
1. remember me, the one who lives there

**i.**

Canada's body is a warm weight in France's lap; France loops one arm around the boy's backside for support, the other pressing and kneading into the fabric of the other's shirt as demanded. "Is that the spot?" France asks, and Canada nods before trying to burrow his head into France's stomach more. "It must have been a horrible itch," murmurs France, fingers passing over a shoulder blade, "that you could not even sleep."

"It was a horrible one," agrees Canada (and there's a flutter of eyes – a quick upward turn – as Canada peaks at him). "I thought- I thought something could be wrong."

France hums and continues to scratch the boy's back. It's _possible_ there is a skirmish somewhere, on some distant river or trail, deep in the colony's woodlands where only the coureur des bois go. But France's alliances with the Indians are stable, reaffirmed weeks earlier. He taps a thoughtful finger across Canada's back anyway, imagines the map of streams and hills as his fingers pass over what he knows as the lands of the Iroquois, Mississauga, Huron and Fox; but nothing feels out of place and Canada is complacent.

"I think," France says finally, stopping his motions so he can haul Canada up – the colony's body pressed against his chest and small hands resting on his shoulders. He presses a kiss to the side of Canada's head. "You don't have an itch," declares France, smiling as Canada flushes and squirms in his hold. And he holds a little tighter, so that his nose can nuzzle Canada's cheek and the boy's curls are falling against his forehead. "_Mon petit_, if you want my attention all you need do is ask!"

"But you're busy," Canada says reasonably, and now he's the one leaning forward, hiding his face against France's neck. "You're going back to Europe soon a-and- I won't get to see you again until the ice thaws." And Canada makes a soft wail in the back of his throat, pressing closer. "I'm sorry. That's not what I wanted to say."

France runs a hand up Canada's back, rubs now to soothe. It crosses his mind for a moment that he should take Canada with him; but when he tries to envision the colony amongst the structure of Versailles' gardens, or mingling with Paris' poor, France knows the thought is only a dream. Canada's charm is the innocent wilderness and until he is older, until he has passed from habitant farms to expansive modern cities, Canada's place is amongst his forests.

"I wish you could stay with me." And the pout – ah, but it's enough to make France miss the ship and spend the winter tucked away in the village!

"You're not allowed to tempt me until you're older," groans France as he presses another quick kiss to the boy's forehead. Then he let's his fingers prod Canada's side; they twist and tickle the skin until France feels Canada quivering from laughter beneath his touch. Before the colony can manoeuvre away France stands, scooping his charge up, and Canada's piercing laugh is carefree as he winds himself tighter into France's hold. "_Dieu_, whatever shall I do with you?"

"Stay with me," Canada repeats as France sets him back down on the mattress. He weaves his arms up around the other's waist, smiling hopefully. "Just for tonight."

"I think you just want to use me as a pillow," France teases, voice dropping to a suspicious tone as he leans down to inspect Canada's face. Although the boy flushes he doesn't relent, tugging at France's hand with his fingers.

Laughing, France dips down and presses a kiss to the crown of Canada's head. "Let me blow out the candle then," he concedes.


	2. after the treaty of paris, 1763

"If you want the world, you've got to destroy to create" - Emily Haines

* * *

**ii.**

England wrings the cloth once over the basin before leaning down to wipe himself clean. It's a mechanical process – stiff, dutiful swipes removing the semen and blood that trails over his skin, but there isn't a cloth that can remove the bad taste in his mouth. On the bed, Canada is still collapsed amongst the sheets, a trail of blood staining the cotton and his small frame trembling even as the mattress absorbs his sobs.

"Have you learned your lesson?" England asks as he tucks himself into his trousers. Then he lifts the basin, brings it to the foot of the bed and wrings out the cloth again, moving to clean the boy's body. Canada tries but fails to twist away, clutches the sheets but doesn't raise a fist. Doesn't strike out at England like he had only minutes earlier, spitting in the older man's face and refusing to acknowledge what he knows is the truth.

This one is still too savage for England's tastes, a land untamed and led astray by France's ideas of civilization. England had half expected to find the boy running around naked; France certainly had made no efforts to present him at the ceremony, only signed the documents with contempt and informed England that his prize was waiting. And hadn't England been even more surprised to see that fierce loyalty in the boy, that haughty raised chin and _vive la France_ even as England told him he'd been abandon by the very nation he loved so much.

It's absurd, as much as it is desirable.

"Clean yourself up," England orders before pausing to repeat himself in French. And Canada raises his head a little at that, takes the cloth England throws at him and shamefully presses it against one thigh. "If you remember who you answer to now," continues England (still in French – the colony's English lessons _will_ begin tomorrow), "we will not have to repeat this lesson."

Surprised to find the other has no comeback, England tut's and grabs the boy's chin. He'll have bruises on his hips in the morning, but the physical damage is minimal and with a little education – a little _refinement_ – England can make him as good as new.


	3. unexpected reunion, confused loyalities

**iii.**

**circa. 1847**

England's houses have always been dark and stuffy, full of odd corners Canada often finds himself wandering in to. He had never minded much before, finding he enjoyed the quiet nooks that never failed to reveal some historical treasure – statues and paintings, an eclectic collection recounting England's earlier days. And he breathed it all in with fascination, traced his finger along the gold-plated edges of majestic portraits and rolled up onto tiptoes, staring in awe at the face of a younger, gentler English nation.

It was while looking at one such portrait that Canada was startled by a wistful sigh behind him.

"_L'Angleterre_ was so much more gentle in those days."

There's something off about the way France smiles. Canada can't tell if it's a trick of the light, or if it's mere unfamiliarity formed after eighty-four years apart. He swallows hard at that thought and tries to convince himself he hasn't been counting. Thinking about France, wanting to see France … he promised England that had all ended.

"England has been quite kind to me. He is perfectly sufficient as he is now. A glorious empire, and rightly so."

France quirks an eyebrow, smile stretching wide. "Aaa~" he sings absently, finally training his eyes on Canada and not the painting. "Defending our acquaintance in his own home. How endearing of you." He steps forward, holding out a hand. "No doubt you have learned your manners, and yet, you do not great your dear France after so long?"

Canada colours. France laughs but the sound is hallow, detached.

"But of course, you have also learned not to trust me from him, too."

"T-that's not-!" Canada starts, then bites at his lower lip, trying to figure out the right thing to say. "I had heard … England said you were going through tough times. I mean, the Revolution and then Napoleon, and- well-"

Somehow during all his stuttering, Canada has backed himself against the wall. His breath quickens as France takes hold of his wrist.

"Of course," France concedes. "He does not want you catching wind of such … dangerous ideas. Not after losing his dear America." A gentle, probing kiss lands along the underside of Canada's wrist. "But you are loyal, are you not? So why," France muses, kisses now landing atop Canada's knuckles, "why does he not trust you?"

"I-I had a rebellion," protests Canada, perhaps a little more hotly than required. "England had to change my boundaries."

"He had to make you less … _French_, non?"

There's another protest sharp on Canada's tongue but it never gets out. Instead, he finds both his hands pinned flat against the wall, his fingers curling as France leans in and steals a kiss.

Canada is definitely breathing faster when France pulls away. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears, he almost misses it when France murmurs, "you are loyal, and that is why you still belong to _me_." And the moan Canada lets out must sound as terrible to France as it does to Canada's own ears, because suddenly France is shushing him, pulling him down toward the ground and planting reassuring kisses wherever is in reach. "_Mon petit_, it is so not bad, is it?" France cups a firm hand around Canada's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "But you must be quiet or he will find out."

France's words don't calm Canada's rising panic. England _always_ finds out – says the walls, the trees, anything and everything whisper it to him. And here, in England's own house even; to go back on his promise is pure blasphemy against the empire who has done nothing but nurture him.

Only France will have none of it when his brain finally forms the thoughts into words. Or at least Canada assumes so. The older nation has long since abandon conversation in favour of whispering sweet-nothings against the soft curls of Canada's hair, fingers working swiftly to peel back their many layers of clothes.

It takes more strength than Canada realized he had to grab both of France's hands and halt his actions. France waits – expectant – entwining their fingers even as Canada begins to shake his head. "No."

"No?"

Canada licks his lips, shifts backward as France leans in. "You don't want me. If you did- if you did, you would never have picked Guadeloupe."

"I assure you," comes the wry reply, France guiding one of Canada's hands down to his straining erection, "I want you very much." France moves their hands along the length of his shaft, and against his better judgement Canada leans into the touch. His breath hitches when France removes his own hand, allowing Canada's to move of its own accord. When France instructs him to kiss the tip Canada obliges, sliding down hesitatingly and allowing the older nation to push forward into his mouth.

The thrust comes quicker than anticipated: Canada balks, tries to pull back only to find France has a firm grip on his hair. Instead he inhales sharply through his nose, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes as France moves again, swift and deep. It takes yet another moment to realize France is humming, one hand bracing his position while the other swipes at Canada's tears, altering with twirling the damp curls of hair against Canada's cheeks.

He's grateful when France pulls out of his mouth. Canada allows himself to be pulled astride France's lap, wiping in shame at the wet pool on his lips. There's a string of pleasantries breathed against his skin, and then France exclaims, "I did not know … you are … yes?"

The quiver of delight running through France's body makes Canada tremble. "Not here," he pleads even as he feels France's fingers against his backside. He reckons by now England must know – has to know – what is going on in his own corridors. But no one appears and when France kisses him again, slow and reassuring, Canada realizes there is no stopping what is going to happen.

He tells himself those eighty-four years weren't spent waiting for France.

But when the burn subsides and France moves, capturing Canada's whimpers in kisses, Canada begins to question whether what France has said is true.


	4. seeking comfort in your arms

**iv.**

Francis sighs as he descends the stairs, stopping to lean against the wall leading into Matthew's kitchen. He goes unnoticed; the kitchen is the only room with a light on, the clock on the microwave a reminder that it's the middle of the night. Yet the long wood table is covered in reports and briefings, the thick black journal Matthew uses for note-taking spread out over top of the pile. At the stove Matthew is flipping pancakes, his iPod tucked into the front pocket of his sweatshirt as he sings along under his breath.

Their flight to New York is due to leave a mere six hours from now. Francis slips quietly over to the table, lifts the report Matthew had been working on and smiles to himself. _Nerves_, he thinks as he sets the papers down again, glancing up and catching the other nation stealing a fresh bite of pancake from his plate.

It's understandable, but Matthew is never going to able to present his report if he hasn't invested in a few hours sleep.

When Francis comes up behind him and plucks the earphones out, Matthew jumps. The startled expression quickly melts to guilt, an apology forming before Matthew even has time to turn and face Francis properly. "I didn't wake you-" he begins, but Francis quiets him with a reassurance that it is simply the difference in time zones.

"_You_ should be sleeping, however." Francis points out as Matthew flips his last pancake and turns off the burner, shifting uncomfortably under Francis' gaze. "Comfort food is not going to help you present this afternoon."

"I- would you like some?" Matthew asks distractedly, already reaching up to rummage for another plate. "The sap hasn't started running yet, but last year's maple syrup is delicious." He's still talking, sentences stumbling together, when Francis sighs again and wraps his arms around Matthew's broad frame, pressing his face against the younger nation's shoulder.

"Mathieu," murmurs Francis, feeling the other still beneath him. "The report is fine. You will _do_ fine. Come to bed."

"It's not that easy," Matthew insists, hands coming down to rest on the counter. Francis lets one of his own hands start massaging Matthew's tense muscles, the other coming around to entwine its fingers with Matthew's. "I can't stop thinking about it," comes the soft confession.

Francis nearly laughs. He settles instead for a smile, hidden in the folds of Matthew's hood. "I know an excellent way to relax and get your mind off everything."

Matthew is studying their fingers, watching the way Francis' thumb runs across his palm in slow even strokes. The tension is still tight in his shoulders as Francis moves to press kisses to the nape of Matthew's neck. He's resisting, Francis realizes; smiles and pulls Matthew away from the counter.

"Let me take care of your nerves."

His last defence is a weak one. "The pancakes," Matthew protests, but Francis is already moving. He collects Matthew's report off the table ("I shall read it for you, and then you will know it is perfect!") and starts up the stairs, glancing back only once to make sure Matthew is following. When they arrive at the door to the guest room Francis _does_ laugh, for although Matthew is trailing him, the younger nation is absorbed in eating the pancakes he brought along to the bedroom.

Francis accepts the bite Matthew offers him, and is pleased to see Matthew finally smile. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Francis accepts the second bite offered and pulls Matthew closer. Matthew places the plate on the nightstand, shifts and leans down to catch Francis' lips in a kiss, moving on his own accord as he pushes Francis down onto the mattress.

"I thought you were nervous," Francis teases between kisses, cupping Matthew's right cheek to slow down the pace of the exchange. The last kiss lingers – and then Matthew pulls back, flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry." He picks up the discarded report: "you said you would read this. I should-"

"After," Francis breaks in. "Place it on the table." He sits up as Matthew obeys, stripping his body before helping Matthew do the same. There's a distinct chill to the air – Francis pulls back the covers and they curl underneath, the heavy winter comforter pulled up as high as it will go.

Matthew reaches back to place his glasses on the night table and Francis takes the opportunity to run his hands over the other's chest, hands settling down around Matthew's hips. In return Matthew presses them closer together, breath hot against Francis' cheek as he nuzzles and kisses along the Frenchman's collarbone. Again Francis slows the pace, softening the kisses and drawing their hands together into a comfortable hold.

A slow, lazy yawn falls against Francis' skin next. "I like _this_," Matthew says decidedly, smiling as their bodies curl together.

Francis runs his free fingers through Matthew's hair, letting them slide in and out of the loose curls before brushing them across Matthew's cheek. Francis can feel Matthew's lashes fluttering against the back of his hand, how the tension in his body melts away as sleep finally calls. "Shall I sing you a lullaby," Francis jokes, kissing the crown of Matthew's head affectionately.

"My report," requests Matthew, sighing as he slips further from consciousness. "Need to memorize it."

It's a difficult reach but rather than disturb Matthew, Francis stretches and snags it from the far night table. He flips it open and scans the first few lines, starting to read only at Matthew's sleepy, distressed murmur. "The Canadian Department of Fisheries and Oceans project _'Environmental Studies for Sustainable Aquaculture'_ under the Environmental Sciences Strategic Research Fund was initiated in April 2000," Francis begins, trying to keep his tone even to hide his _own_ yawn.

"The four objectives," Matthew cuts in, "were to ask _'How can assimilative capacity be determined for wastes produced by marine finfish aquaculture?', 'What measurements can be made to document changing patterns and rates of sedimentation?', 'How can material released from aquaculture sites be tracked within a coastal system?'_, and … and …"

"And _'How can these environmental objectives be used by habitat managers to mitigate potential environmental effects such that a Harmful Alteration, Disruption or Destruction of fish habitat does not occur?'_," supplies Francis.

"Yeah, right," murmurs Matthew through another yawn, burrowing further under the blankets.

Francis continues to read, letting Matthew interject lines at will, until finally Matthew has stopped responding, breath slow and even as he sleeps. Scanning the last page of the report, Francis closes it and sets it aside, shifting his own body into a more comfortable position. "I told you the report was fine, did I not?" he asks aloud to the silent room, sending Matthew an amused smile.

* * *

Note:

The report referenced (and partially quoted) above is the 'Environmental Studies for Sustainable Aquaculture (ESSA): 2002 workshop report' accessed from Fisheries and Oceans Canada's website.


	5. the dance lesson

**v.** written for the franada secret santa exchange on livejournal. Dedicated to xellia, whose request inspired the story!

* * *

Matthew has always preferred to linger in bed come morning. Even though the French air lacks the nip of his homeland, Francis supposes he can indulge his former charge – it's such a rare opportunity for them to be together. And Matthew's changing, taller than Francis remembers, with broader shoulders and an accent distinctly flavoured with British enunciations. He assumed they would grow apart after nearly a century without contact, but while Arthur may influence Matthew's government and culture, he has yet to dampen the fondness Matthew apparently still holds for Francis himself.

That is a small but welcome victory.

Beside him Matthew stirs, a content noise escaping as he uncurls his limbs and arches into a stretch. Francis reaches out, runs the pad of his thumb across Matthew's cheek even as the mattress dips, bodies rolling closer together and Matthew's soft exhalation landing against the crux of Francis's neck.

"I missed you," the younger nation contends happily.

"And I, you," Francis replies, smile coming easy. His hand slides down the length of Matthew's adolescent frame, hooks around the other's waist and pulls him in so their bodies lie flush together. Matthew laughs as Francis seizes his hand, pressing kisses to the palm. "I have grown bored of Africa, of Asia. 'If only I had kept my sweet Canada', I think."

The flattery makes Matthew colour, but the retort is already sharp on his tongue. Francis accepts it good-naturedly, extending his trail of kisses to the base of Matthew's hand. There is something comforting about the way their limbs tangle together, the ease with which Matthew still nestles against his side. History drew them apart, and Francis is more than delighted that his former colony approaches the situation with maturity and forgiveness. That for today Matthew is his again.

Francis lets the thought warm him while he prepares them breakfast in the kitchen. And when he returns to the bedroom, trays laden with food, he finds Matthew has pulled open the windows and now leans over the iron-wrought rails gazing at the street below. Or _listening_ rather, for what has caught Matthew's attention is a small quartet set up in the street below.

"Are you fond of the waltz?"

Matthew looks up, crosses the room and begins to consider the assortment of fruits Francis has made available. "I suppose I enjoy watching it."

"Watching it? Surely Arthur is no longer insisting it is an indecent dance! Why, his own Queen is particularly fond of it."

With a shrug, Matthew selects a pear and bites into it. "He says at the very least, only married couples should participate."

"_Married couples?_ Why, I did not know he had gone and married his own royalty!" laughs Francis, incredulous. "If Arthur will not teach you, then I suppose that duty rests with me. _Mathieu_, passionate young men must know how to waltz. It is the dance of our era – social custom requires it!"

Quickly crossing to the window, Francis throws it open again and calls down to the street below. Matthew turns from his pear when he hears Francis rummage for coins. Francis tosses them to the quartet below, turning back to face Matthew with an apologetic smile. "Forgive such an impromptu lesson, but I gave them enough money that we can cover the basic footwork. Breakfast can wait."

"I haven't any shoes," points out Matthew.

"Bare feet are acceptable."

Wiping his hands on a cloth, Matthew helps Francis push the furniture away, creating a clearing by the window. Outside the quartet has begun to play. Francis rolls back his sleeves, moving to stand behind Matthew. His hands clamp down to correct Matthew's posture then linger, so that Matthew's back is pressed against Francis' chest. "Now," Francis instructs, voice low in Matthew's ear, "you must feel the music. Left foot steps forward on the first beat, right foot following on the second, and then bring the left foot beside _it_ on three."

It's a tangled mess at first. But Matthew's frustration is eased by the soothing tone Francis uses to instruct him. Soon Francis has taught him a full progressive step, and they move – body to body – in circles around the room. Then Francis shifts, slipping around to face Matthew and joining their hands together. "It is a couple's dance after all," he explains, pulling Matthew into position.

Matthew flushes as his arm is slipped around Francis' waist. "This isn't how Arthur dances."

"It is _better_ than how Arthur dances," counters Francis with a wide grin. "You can woo anyone you like with this hold – not that you will need any help, I'm sure. But the ladies will love it."

The doubt is still evident in Matthew's expression, but he nods and accepts the position. Francis gives the hand he's still holding a reassuring squeeze. "Focus on your footwork. I'll count aloud."

They begin to move again, though this time Matthew is more cautious. He's careful to avoid Francis' eyes, focusing instead on his footwork, brow creased in concentration as he tries not to stumble. Only Francis counting out the rhythm breaks the steady sound of music drifting through the open window.

And his earlier words are true, Francis notes. Matthew could charm anyone he likes – if only Arthur had given him the confidence to do so! Even despite the fumbles and lax hold, Francis himself is charmed by his would-be protégé. What Matthew lacks in experience is compensated for by his genuine effort. If Arthur has done anything right, he's nurtured Matthew's strengths perfectly. And of course, it helps that Matthew is both easy on the eyes and openly affectionate in Francis' presence. Should Matthew gain the independence he seeks, Francis has no doubts that their two countries will quickly re-establish close ties. Surely Arthur cannot stand between such an obvious bond!

Carried away by his thoughts, Francis doesn't realize they've stopped moving until Matthew tugs at his arm. The waltz has died off, a livelier tune replacing it as the quartet plays on.

When Francis releases Matthew's hand, the younger collapses on the bed. Francis takes a seat next to him, smiling in satisfaction.

"With a little more guidance you'll make an excellent dancer."

"Only Arthur will have my hide if he sees me dancing like that. He'll realize I've seen you."

"You needn't worry about Arthur," replies Francis, dismissing the concern. "I reckon his anger will be directed at his arch-nemesis, not his adoring colony." Before Matthew can press the issue, Francis bends down and seizes one of Matthew's feet. "When dancing the waltz, recall that you must start with the weight _here_", Francis taps one of Matthew's heels to demonstrate, "before shifting it forward."

"Is that important?" asks Matthew, stifling a yawn as he gets comfortable on the bed again. "I can barely remember the steps, let alone where my weight is."

Francis cannot help but laugh. "Did I not say you would require more practice? With time both will come easily." Silence descends between them, but it's comfortable. Tipping his head back, Francis closes his eyes and listens as the quartet dives into yet another movement. He recognizes this one from a dance held in Austria, and finds himself wondering when Matthew will attend such a party. Arthur will not possess the colony forever, not when talks have already turned to independence.

Suddenly Matthew slips their hands together, pulling Francis' attention back to him. "I really missed you," says Matthew, repeating his earlier admission. His smile is still bright, but understandably strained. "I wish I could stay longer."

"The next time we meet, I expect you to have mastered the waltz," Francis orders in an even tone. "We shall dance together, Arthur be damned."

"I do like him, you know," retorts Matthew with a crooked grin, pushing himself up and eying the breakfast they've left sitting on the table. "But his cooking is _dismal_. Can we eat now?"

Francis leans over and plants a teasing kiss on Matthew's cheek. "You've humoured my long enough I suppose. Go ahead."

Matthew hesitates. Eyes averted and cheeks flushed, he leans over and quickly returns the gesture before scrambling off the bed.

"Good," exclaims Matthew as he releases Francis' hand, enthusiastically surveying the table again, "because dancing makes you hungry!"

* * *

Notes:

[1] According to Wikipedia, when the waltz originally appeared partners did not use the same close waist-hold we envision with the waltz today. Touching was instead kept to the hands/shoulders, although this itself was scandalous at the time. As you probably gathered, the British in particular were appalled by the waltz and the dance took longer to catch on there. I imagined Francis would teach Matthew the most scandalous form of the dance available, just to annoy Arthur.

[2] As for the timing of this fic, I loosely based it on the late 1850s / early 1860s. In my head, Matthew was ordered to London to discuss the terms of his future independence, and on the way home, he just _happened_ to make a stop in France without Arthur knowing. Whether or not Arthur finds out is up to your imagination!


	6. with glowing hearts, vancouver 2010

**vi.**

Francis never sees it coming.

He is fighting his way through Whistler Village one moment, and the next he has been pulled into arms with a hold strong enough to break him. Never one to deny a person in need, Francis relaxes into the position and smiles at the scene before him. The crowd is trembling, one unified roar lifting their voices high into the night air. And for a moment Francis can imagine the way it sweeps across the land – soaring over mountains and plains, settling down into the coastal regions; the name of their hero on every set of lips.

"We did it," Matthew yells in his ear, and if possible his hold on Francis increases. He is laughing, understandably exuberant.

"_Mathieu_," replies Francis, equally delighted, "this is not the first time you have won a gold medal."

"But _this_," interjects Matthew, finally relaxing his hold so Francis can lean back and see his face. "This is- is amazing."

Francis watches the way Matthew's eyes never settle on any one person, scanning the crowd repeatedly as he takes in their energy. He is distracted – rightly so – his own body trembling from the outpouring of national pride.

"It's amazing," he repeats then turns to look at Francis. And for a minute Matthew grows serious, clapping Francis' back with one mitten-clad hand. "Yours were amazing too," comes the acknowledgement and although he doesn't say it, Francis can hear _but not as amazing as mine_. It's reflected in the way Matthew struggles to hold the apologetic expression, face breaking into another grin as his eyes dart back to the crowd.

Francis smiles, knowing he is witnessing something special.

"Amazing indeed."

* * *

The majority of the time Francis spends tucked snug in Whistler. He enjoys it there, up among the mountains and his own victorious athletes. And so it is not until his sojourn into Vancouver-proper a week later that Francis sees Matthew again.

It is obvious something has changed. There is still that nervous energy humming under Matthew's skin, still that bursting of pride hijacking his system, but his eyes aren't as bright and his smiles weak. "Maybe it just wasn't meant to happen," Matthew laughs, giving his feet a stamp as he shuffles about awkwardly. "I'm not suppose to be like this, you know. They're cracking under the pressure."

"You need to calm down," sympathizes Francis, for he has seen patriotic fervor consume many nations. Then he cautiously adds, "You have been crying, non?"

Immediately Matthew is wiping furiously at his eyes. "It's just hockey," he says irritably. "It doesn't automatically undo all the accomplishments we've achieved."

"Of course not."

"I mean," Matthew says, frowning, "just because we're good at it doesn't mean we're the _best_. We've lost before. It's not a big deal."

"You need to calm down," Francis repeats, laying a hand on Matthew's shoulder and trying to catch his eyes (which are still skirting around nervously, looking every which way). "I would buy you a drink but I think you are … spirited enough."

The joke doesn't deter Matthew. "I _hate_ America," he confesses suddenly. But Francis notes that his anger is weak, expression more dejected than furious. "I just want to be better at something! He's already beaten my juniors, and his team was suppose to be weak."

"I'm sure." Francis is trying not to sound bored, but that proves difficult whenever Matthew succumbs to rehashing the intricate details of his game. For a minute Francis lets him talk, lets him pour it all out right there on a Vancouver sidewalk. Then he catches Matthew's hands, holding them steady as he captures that wayward mouth.

Matthew is trembling for a different reason when Francis pulls back from kissing him. More importantly, for once he is looking at Francis, attention focused entirely on the nation at hand.

"I-is that allowed?" Matthew finally asks, the words coming out in one nervous breath.

Francis laughs. "Why would it not be?"

"But we're rivals," points out Matthew, tongue darting out to nervously lick his lips. His eyes skirt back to the street around him, and then he tugs Francis forward, maneuvering them between two buildings. "Someone might accuse me of favouring your athletes."

"I rather think this is in the spirit of the games," says Francis solemnly. "You have not forgotten the games are about bringing the world together for _friendly_ competition."

Matthew blinks. Face growing hot, he stutters about for an answer before ultimately pulling Francis into a kiss of his own. When they break Matthew says, "Our first gold medallist was from Quebec. How's that for national unity, eh?" And he laughs softly, enveloping Francis into a warm but strong hug.

* * *

Francis is packing the last of his belongings when the knock sounds on the door. Having already received an extraordinarily illogical text message from Matthew, Francis isn't surprised to see the other standing outside his room.

Matthew is positively giddy, and maybe a bit drunk.

"Victory beer," explains Matthew when Francis asks, laughing and pulling them close together. "Or maybe two, I can't really recall. _They won_," he says suddenly, interrupting himself. "Crosby doesn't know how he sunk the shot, but he sunk it and _they won_ and oh god, oh god it feels so good …"

"I can tell," Francis laughs when he feels a hand sliding down to grope his ass. Matthew's eagerness makes Francis smile. "I'm surprised you can still stand," he admits, tugging playfully at that lone curl tickling his cheek. "You're been on a high all week."

"Never want it to end. I- I'm _awesome_, eh?"

"Your poise is remarkable. Not cocky at all, shall we say." And to round out the joke Francis let's his hand slide down, settling on the obvious erection Matthew is now sporting under his touch. Francis decides he should feel honoured Matthew even made it to the hotel, not sidetracked by one of his own ecstatic citizens. And it is remarkable really, what a little confidence has done to the usually quiet and even-tempered nation. Grinning like this, wild and self-assured, Matthew looks painfully like his brother – a thought Francis knows better than to state aloud.

"You know what I feel like?" asks Matthew between a short, sloppy set of kisses. "I feel like I could give you the best fuck of your life."

"Do you," returns Francis with a quirky grin of his own, feeling Matthew's giddiness rub off. "Then it's a good thing I sleep around. I'll have ample experience to judge you with."

"Yeah?" Matthew has a hand at Francis' waist, pulling out the tails of his shirt and tackling the belt buckle. "And who last had you?"

"Mmm, a very drunk German only a few nights ago," confesses Francis, laughing at the memory. "And you?" he asks in return, genuinely curious to know.

"Alfred and I met some girls down in Robson. Twins," he adds mischievously, "or so we thought. They did look it though."

"Yours or his?"

"That's the best part!" exclaims Matthew, remembrance making him pause. "We argued about it afterward. Because they're duals, though Alfred will never admit it. And I think," Matthew adds as an afterthought, voice dropping to a low conspiring tone, "I think she left him halfway in. He was boasting about it afterward, but he still couldn't remember her name. Wouldn't you leave if someone couldn't remember your name?"

Francis can only wonder if it's a rhetorical question, for Matthew doesn't give him proper time to answer, his fingers finally conquering Francis' belt. Francis kicks off the pants Matthew leaves pooled at his ankles, leaning over to swipe the bottle of lube buried in his suitcase. When he's found it Matthew too is rid of his pants, the expression on his face one of open anticipation.

"You're absolutely glowing," Francis murmurs with a shake of the head. He guides Matthew to bed but settles himself on the floor; fingers curling around Matthew's cock as he sends a sly, flirtatious look upward. Yet his teasing touches are short-lived, for Matthew has already grabbed one of the condoms Francis deposited with the lube, ripping it open and passing it down. Francis obliges the unvoiced request with another headshake.

"Sorry," Matthew says when he sees it. "There's still the closing ceremonies tonight so I haven't quite-"

"Got the time, I know," finishes Francis. Not that Matthew could sit still in such an excited state, he acknowledges silently. "Next time," Francis concedes with a kiss to Matthew's thigh. And then he's pulled up onto the bed, sprawled amongst the sheets he had not bothered to makeup that morning.

As expected, the sex is not the slow careful pace Francis associates with Matthew. Although he knows the other is trying to calm the jittery lurches, apologizing as he wraps himself around Francis, kissing wherever he can reach. It is Francis who makes that awkward stretch, anchoring himself on Matthew's shoulders as he draws them together for a kiss. "Go on," Francis says when they part for breath, "let's see that golden touch, hm?" And barely have the words come out when Matthew let's his last inhibitions go, giving a thrust forward.

It is not the best fuck of Francis' life, but it is certainly one of the more memorable if only for the way Matthew is able be so unrestrained. And he likes the way the younger nation is groaning his name, how Matthew settles so deeply within despite the quick rapid movements. Francis finds himself responding, compensating for Matthew's unsteadiness. And when pleasure overcomes pain, when Matthew's name is the only word Francis can form, he finally comes.

Matthew is close behind. He rides it out while their bodies are still one, then pulls out and flops next to Francis on the bed. The heaving pants soon turn to laughter and Matthew reaches out and kisses Francis – a sound, steady gesture that underscores the way his fingers tremble against Francis' cheek.

"Thank you," Matthew says then kisses Francis again. And if he was giddy before, well, Francis doesn't _know_ how to describe it now. But he accepts the kisses easily, letting his own hands tangle in Matthew's hair.

And maybe they would have stayed like that forever, the way Matthew persists.

"You have a ceremony to attend and yet you've completely lost it." Francis finally breaks away some moments later, twisting so Matthew can no longer reach him. "What are you thanking me for?"

"Just for being here," confesses Matthew, the corners of his mouth twitching happily. "For keeping me sane maybe," he adds with another laugh, wiping at the tears gathering around his eyes. "Tomorrow is … everything returns to normal, you know? But I think I just experienced the best two weeks I've had in a long time." Then quieter, sobering, Matthew says, "Change your plane. You've stayed this long, you _have_ to attend the closing ceremonies with me tonight. I'll put you up."

"You don't need me to watch over you," Francis says as a smile tugs at his lips. "I'll catch it on the television before going to bed."

"No," insists Matthew, sitting now and trying to drag Francis up with him. "Come on, we'll shower and make it in no time. You _must_," he insists again.

And Francis wonders if Matthew knows how his hugs destroy Francis' resistance, because when Matthew's arms wrap around him, Francis can't say no.


End file.
